


Me & You Sitting In A Honeymoon

by dancinbutterfly, ladyfoxxx



Series: Slideverse [5]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, My Chemical Romance/Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Sex, Breathplay, Cuddling, M/M, Marriage, Romance, Shmoop, Smut, Tattoos, baths, near canon au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-11-11 01:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancinbutterfly/pseuds/dancinbutterfly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyfoxxx/pseuds/ladyfoxxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being on tour is not the best place to have a honeymoon but Pete is trying to work with what he's got. Follows <a href="http://dancinbutterfly.livejournal.com/322426.html">Permanent Jet Lag</a> in the Slideverse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Me & You Sitting In A Honeymoon

**Author's Note:**

> TODAY IS [](http://chuckaloonie.livejournal.com/profile)[**chuckaloonie**](http://chuckaloonie.livejournal.com/)'s BIRTHDAY! HAPPY BIRTHDAY BB! So, in honor of her birthday, [](http://ladyfoxxx.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ladyfoxxx.livejournal.com/)**ladyfoxxx** and I decided to give her some porn with biting/marking as requested. Hope it works for you darling!

The second Mikey gets back into the hotel room, Pete yanks him inside and locks the door. Or, at least he tries to lock the door, but it's one of those electronic ones with a key card so there's no physical bolt or anything to lock.

He settles for announcing "This door is locked, okay?" to his husband of one week, who just looks at him slightly puzzled.

"Uh, yeah? It locks every time you close it. That's how it works."

"No, I mean that is not a door anymore. It's a wall. No one comes in. No one goes out. Okay? Now give me your phone."

Mikey raises both eyebrows at him and Pete knows he's pushing it, but he sticks out his hand until Mikey sighs and digs in the pocket of his hoodie for his sidekick. He doesn't exactly offer it to Pete, he just holds it up and Pete tugs it gently from his hands like he'd separate Hemmy from his favorite toy. He ignores the three waiting text message notifications and turns it off. Mikey makes a wounded noise.

Pete nearly gives it right back, but he steels himself instead, putting the sidekick down on the bedside, next to his own phone that's already switched off.

He straightens up, looks Mikey dead in the eye and says, "We need to have sex. Okay? This is _wrong_."

Mikey blinks a couple of time and adjusts his glasses with an absent hand. "Um. What? What's wrong?" His eyebrows furrow behind his glasses.

"This!" Pete flaps his arms at the hotel room, which despite being serviced daily is still covered in two days’ worth of his and Mikey's combined travel and tour detritus: luggage, clothes and random crap scattered on most of the available surfaces. "We're in a hotel room, Mikey. We've been here for _two days_ and we haven't had sex yet. This is _wrong_. The gods of marriage are going to shoot a fucking thunderbolt through us or something."

Mikey stares at Pete, head tipped slightly to the side, brow still furrowed. This is not coming out at all the way Pete wanted it to. He should be so much better with words by now.

He takes a breath and steps up in front of Mikey, his hand automatically reaching to tangle their fingers. It's so ridiculous that his stomach is tied up in knots about this. He's good. They're good. They're fucking awesome. They're just not _fucking_ and it's driving Pete crazy, having Mikey so close and yet so constantly out of reach.

Because if it's not a show or an interview or a press shindig that's tying Mikey up, it's the band themselves and Pete is trying, he's trying so hard not to be demanding because he's been on the other side of it too and he knows how shitty it feels to not have time, to know he's keeping someone waiting. So he's kept his trap shut and lugged gear and ran cables and did whatever the fuck Frank or Ray or Mikey's instruments needed. God, he forgot how much hard work teching was. He needs to send every one of his techs a fucking fruit basket.

He didn't even complain last night, when he finally had Mikey alone in the hotel room, and hotel rooms are designed for sex but before he could get all Barry White on him Gerard knocked on the door. And Pete didn't grouse or whine when Gerard started talking _before he even stepped into the room_ about some vision of the five of them dying or something equally genius and insane and Mikey gave Pete the _sorry, it's a brother thing_ look. Pete hadn't complained at all about being kicked out of his own room, he'd just kissed Mikey, with only a little bit of tongue - because, come on, he needs to know what he's missing out on – and made Mikey promise a rain check.

If he spent the next two hours complaining to Patrick on the phone, that is no one's business but his. And Patrick's.

The point is, Pete has been so fucking well-behaved. He could be sainted. But Mikey's here now and Pete's not letting him leave again, or get distracted or kidnapped or anything.

"Pete-" Mikey starts, a sigh in his voice that's already becoming a Pete sigh, but Pete's not done yet.

"I know this is your tour, babe, and I know you've got shit to do. I know what it's like, right? I totally respect that." Pete's hand snakes up Mikey's arm, his fingers settling on his chest, above his heart, right where he knows the four-day-old tattoo with the intertwined W's sits under his palm through the thin t-shirt material. He hasn't seen it but for glimpses since they got it done and it's making him twitchy. He wants to see it properly, run his fingers over it while the lines are still raised and angry, before it smooths over and becomes part of Mikey forever.

Mikey's looking at him, eyes soft behind his glasses even if his mouth is twitching with annoyance or amusement. Pete keeps going. "But we haven't had sex since New York and it's just fucking wrong."

Mikey mouth pulls to the side. "I didn't think you were that out of it last night."

He is, of course, referring to the sloppy mutual hand jobs at dark o'clock that morning when Mikey got back from... wherever the fuck he'd been. Not that it wasn't great. At least, what Pete can remember of it.

"Last night was great. Everything's great. I just..." Pete's thumb is stroking absently back and forth over that spot on Mikey's chest. He's probably kidding himself but he thinks maybe he can feel the raised edges of the tattoo through the t-shirt. Pete drags his gaze up from Mikey's shoulder to focus on his face. There's a crease between his eyebrows as he studies Pete like he's a particularly complex puzzle. Fuck, he's beautiful.

"Mikey. I need you to fuck me. I fucking _need_ it." There's a little less request and little more begging in his tone than he intended, but Mikey gets the message. He scratches at the back of his head, making a birds nest of his hair.

"Um. Okay." Mikey rubs his forehead absently. "Jesus Pete, give me a fucking heart attack. When you dragged me in here I thought something was actually _wrong_."

Pete presses closer, dropping his hands to his sides and taking Mikey's hands in his. He tips his forehead forward so it touches Mikey's.

"Nothing's wrong. Except for how we're in a fucking _hotel room_ and you're wearing way too many clothes." Pete points out, and he's rewarded with a snort from Mikey and a flash of that gorgeous rare smile of his. Pete bathes in it a moment before he leans in and kisses it from Mikey's mouth.

It's not like they haven't been kissing that much, lately. They've been kissing at every opportunity, in fact. Any time they can grab a moment with each other, to the point where the My Chem guys don't even bother giving them shit for it anymore. It's great. Pete can count on being able to kiss Mikey for as long as they're both still drawing breath and the idea still fills him with a giddy happiness that makes his chest feel too small for his heart.

So they've been kissing, sure. But this is different. This is kissing with intent. Mikey's long fingers trace a tingling trail up Pete's back, settling at Pete's neck and stroking his pulse. Mikey's mouth falls further open under Pete's and Pete takes full advantage, licking into his mouth and tasting him. Mikey's fingers tighten on Pete's neck, fingernails digging in just a little as his teeth catch on Pete's lower lip. Now he's playing dirty. Pete groans into Mikey's lips and leans in closer, scissoring their legs so he can grind his hard-on against Mikey's thigh. Because he's already hard, of course, it's Mikey - Mikey's lips, Mikey's tongue. Mikey's teeth biting just hard enough that Pete can feel it and it trips up his breathing.

He pulls back, panting, "Mikey. Fuck. Get this off." He tugs at Mikey’s hoodie.

His hoodie gets stuck over his head on his wrists and Pete really doesn’t care. "Don’t, you’ll break them." Mikey protests when the fabric gets caught on the frames of his glasses. He’ll buy him new glasses. He’ll buy him six new pairs. Plus, he has the pair he stole back in July in his luggage.

Far more pressing is the fact Mikey is wearing a fucking t-shirt under the hoodie. Too many layers. Pete hates them. They're evil. If this shirt weren't the Journey one, the one he knows is one of Mikey’s favorites, he’d dig his fingers into the small hole at the collar and just rip. Instead he reaches up and plucks Mikey's glasses off his face before grabbing the back of his shirt and yanking it over his head like he's learning how to fight, Mighty Ducks 2 style.

Once Pete can see all that pale skin, he hands Mikey his glasses back. They've never made love without them. Mikey likes to be able to see. "There are details Pete," Mikey had told him the first time Pete had ever tried to get his glasses off before sex. "On your skin, in your face, on your body. I don’t want to miss them."

So he makes sure Mikey always has his glasses, even when they're kissing and it's awkward. Besides, Mikey getting his eyes back is a good distraction while Pete attacks his skinny jeans.

"I hate these pants."

"You have the exact same ones in black," Mikey protests. The argument is softened by the way he ducks his head to kiss at the underside of Pete's jaw. The move forces him to bend pretty far but Pete moans a little in appreciation.

"I hate them anyway." He can’t get the single stubborn button above the zipper to cooperate and he doesn’t have the force to rip them open. "They're keeping me from your dick."

Mikey laughs into his skin. "Oh, well in that case."

"This is what I'm saying," Pete agrees, finally working the button open. The zipper is nothing after that. Then, thank Christ, he reaches boxers.

Boxers don’t have impossible buttons. Boxers have elastic waistbands that Pete can just slip his hand inside. Mikey nearly trips getting out of his jeans and Pete takes that time to strip off his own shirt and pants so that they're just in their underwear and Pete can wrap his fist around Mikey's cock beneath the soft baggy fabric and jerk him slow and dirty.

Mikey grabs his ass and pulls him in tight. It brings Pete's chest into sharp contact with Mikey's and they both hiss. Too much, too soon, the inked skin is too raw. This is Mikey's first but Pete knows better. He does. He knows better about lots of things but finds more often than not that he really doesn’t care.

"Missed you." He nuzzles his nose into Mikey's collar bone as he touches him. He breathes deep, trying to smell - under the dirt and old cigarette smoke and dust from stages and the spray he uses on his hair - the Mikey scent.

"I'm right here. I never left and neither did you."

Pete is pretty sure that if he could climb Mikey standing like they are, he would. Just wrap his legs around Mikey's body and let gravity pull him down until he slid onto Mikey raw and dry and painful. It'd be worth it. He'd probably see supernovas, black holes and God and hurt so much he couldn't lift an empty guitar case let alone move an amp the next day. He doesn't say that out loud though. That sounds crazy even in his head.

He must've stopped moving because Mikey's hands are on his face, stroking his thumbs over Pete's cheek bones. "Pete?" He kisses Pete slowly on the mouth, coaxing with his tongue until Pete is mostly present again. "I'm here, see?"

"I know," Pete says because he does. Really.

That doesn't change anything though. Only he's staring at Mikey and his eyes flick down to his bartskull necklace hanging from Mikey's neck, further down at the raised and angry lines of their new tattoo and thinks that yes, it does. Mikey's his husband – his _husband_ \- so he can try to explain it, right? Mikey's not going to run away now. That's the whole point.

"It's like-" Pete pauses and shifts so that both his hands are wrapped around Mikey's back to pull them closer together. He doesn't know if that's possible but he's going to try. "It's like if I could share a body with you, I would because I don’t feel like I can ever get close enough to you, I love you so fucking much."

Mikey takes hold of his waist, holds Pete close. He knows Pete isn't done talking so he doesn't try to cut in. Instead he gives Pete a gentle hug that from anyone else would not be hot. But it's Mikey so it sets Pete off like a roman candle.

"Sometimes when you fuck me it’s like you go all the way through. You go straight into me and we come out one person. So I need you to fuck me. Fuck me. I need you to fuck me," Pete says. Then he kisses Mikey again, kisses him until Mikey's fucking his tongue inside Pete's mouth like he needs his cock to. "Please," he gasps when they break the kiss. "Please, Mikey, because you're here but you're far away and I miss you already so just fuck me. Please?"

He's begging. He is begging to be fucked and he is strangely okay with that. Frank's been teasing him about his next tattoo, saying it should be "greedy slut" since he and Mikey got their wedding ink done at that parlor in the Netherlands. Maybe Frank's right. Maybe Pete is a greedy slut but Mikey's looking at him with dark eyes, so who cares. He can totally rock greedy, needy, hungry slut for Mikey. It's pretty much his standard setting anyway.

"Pete-"

"Please, Mikey. Please, okay, I need you to-"

"I know. Jesus, Pete, I heard you. I wasn't going to say no. Get on the bed, alright? Just, take off your underwear and get on the fucking bed." He punctuates this with a sharp kiss that sucks out most of Pete's air before giving him a sharp shove towards the mattress.

Pete trips and feels his whole body catch fire. He didn't actually know Mikey could do use that kind force and it makes him whimper like a puppy. He shimmies out of his boxers. Mikey doesn't move, just watches him from behind his lenses. His gaze is so intense that Pete can almost feel it and he arches up into it like a touch.

"You are so fucking needy I don’t know what to do with you," Mikey says, mostly to himself. Pete could give him some suggestions but he waits as Mikey tilts his head to the side and studies him. Pete hates that he's not being touched. Hates it. As much as he does, the attention makes him feel like he’s being caressed everywhere. It's fucking bliss and it's torture and Pete loves him so fucking much because Mikey gets it. Gets him.

"Mikey," Pete whines. He's hard, so fucking hard and Mikey hasn't put a hand on him yet. He wants Mikey's hands. He wants Mikey's mouth too, his teeth and his tongue and his lips and the light stubble on his cheeks. And Pete wants his cock. God, Pete really wants Mikey's cock, down his throat first then inside him, turning Pete into something more, better, than the vibrating shell he is now.

"Aside from the obvious. I'll fuck you Pete, okay, don't worry about that. Just, hm." He tilts his head to the other side. "I'm just not sure, because you're right. We've got a hotel and all night and you look like porn right now so, yeah. I'm trying to figure out what I want to do to."

"Don't think so hard." Pete's voice comes out sulkier than he intends but fuck, he's getting cold over here. He reaches an arm up, beckoning. "Don't think at all, just get over here. We don't need a plan."

Mikey's mouth compresses into a line, but his eyes are still locked on Pete, scheming behind his glasses. He takes the two steps forward and slides his fingers between Pete's on his outstretched hand. Pete fights a grin, gripping Mikey's hand and tugging him forwards suddenly. The move works, tipping Mikey off balance, but Mikey's part ninja and he manages to land on Pete in a straddle, pushing Pete's arms above his head. Pete's totally at his mercy and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Mikey smiles down at him, hair flopping in front of his eyes. "Hi."

"Hi," Pete responds, before arching up off the bed and taking Mikey's mouth again.

Mikey makes a satisfied noise into their lips and shimmies down Pete's body in a way that feels amazing and leaves their bodies pressed hip to hip, chest to chest. Well not exactly chest to chest because they're both being careful about the freshly inked patch above their respective hearts. Up close like this, Pete can't help himself, his fingers are trailing down Mikey's chest, framing the design with his hands. Two Ws interlaced inside a heart isn't the most stubble thing in the world but Pete's never really gone in for subtly.

"Fuck." He's short of breath looking at it, because it's just there. On Mikey's skin. Forever.

He's a sap and a romantic, but there's a sudden pressure behind his eyes that threaten tears and he's blinking fast when he looks up at Mikey. Mikey smiles down at him, his eyes a little faraway. "I know."

Then Mikey's trailing his fingers carefully up Pete's stomach, across his chest until his fingertips are dancing patterns around the edge of Pete's entwined W's. His touch is feather-light, but Pete's skin is still healing so it hurts a little. Enough to make Pete suck in sharp breath.

"Still sore?" Mikey asks, fingers trailing further away from the design, the pain more of an itch now.

"Same as yours." Pete's voice doesn't sound like his own. It's too low. Too throaty.

Mikey's fingers trail back again. He traces the pad of his index finger down the long line of a W, his touch so light it would tickle if the flesh wasn't raw. As it is, it's like being painted with a hot brush and Pete's body stiffens as he gasps in another breath. Mikey shifts on top of Pete, sliding lower. Their legs intertwine and fuck, there it is. Their fit. Mikey's thigh is between Pete's legs, putting delicious pressure on his cock and the combination of that and the zing of pain from Mikey's fingertips has Pete making a choked noise and rolling up against Mikey.

Mikey's mouth quirks up at the side wickedly. "You like that. Of course you like that." He's speaking more to himself than Pete and this time when he does it again, fingertip tracing a different line on Pete's skin, he rolls his hips down against Pete's.

It's kind of evil and amazing at the same time, and if Pete could actually speak he'd tell Mikey that, but he's too busy panting and groaning and rocking up against Mikey. Fuck. He's so fucking hard now, leaking against Mikey's leg, and he can feel the answering press of Mikey's arousal against his thigh, through the thin fabric of the underwear he's somehow still wearing. He grasps Mikey's shoulder weakly, wanting more, needing more of _something_.

"Mikey. Fuck." Pete squirms and Mikey starts tracing letters again, his hips still rocking against Pete's, almost like he doesn't realize he's doing it.

"Fucking love this on you." Mikey's voice is low, throaty and wrecked. "There on your skin. Showing you're mine." He presses lightly on the clean skin between two inked lines, and it's a different pain this time, a stretch instead of a touch and it makes Pete whine between his teeth. His hand falls onto Mikey's ass, grabbing a handful and pulling down, needing more pressure, more friction.

He grabs Mikey behind the head with his other hand, pulling him down and devouring his mouth. Mikey kisses him rough and needy, nipping at his lips. He doesn't move his hand from Pete's tattoo, letting his palm rest lightly over the design, and every tiny shift of his hand has Pete squirming. He bucks up against Mikey, groaning into his mouth, reaching up to cover Mikey's hand with his own and press down.

Fuck. It's nearly too much. He breaks the kiss with a startled noise, but he doesn't let go of Mikey's hand. The burn underneath it is addictive and Pete's not ready to give it up.

"Pete?" Mikey's concern leaks into his breathless voice.

"More. Just. More." Pete chokes the words out, writhing under Mikey, eyes fluttering so much he can't focus on Mikey's face. But he doesn't need to see Mikey's face to know there's a concerned furrow between his eyebrows. "Please," Pete adds, breathless and pleading, hips shifting restlessly under Mikey as he searches for friction.

Mikey's still for barely a heartbeat, considering. Then his mouth is on Pete's neck and the pressure on Pete's fresh ink isn't coming from his own hand but Mikey's. And Pete wants to sing his praises from the fucking rooftops and skywrite poetry about him because he fucking gets it. He just does. He kisses and licks at Pete's neck as he grinds down on him, his teeth lightly grazing before he opens his mouth to suck and then bite the soft skin of Pete's neck and shoulder.

Pete shudders under Mikey's hands and mouth. It's a fucking onslaught. Teeth and tongue and burn and friction. He's shaking, flushed hot from feet to forehead, and Mikey's not letting up, biting hard enough to bruise and rubbing off on Pete's leg. Pete gasps for air, trembling, feeling the pleasure in his cock get more insistent. He's gonna - he's gonna -

"Stop! Fuck. Mikey." He gasps the words out, desperate, grabbing Mikey by the shoulders and willing his body still. Mikey freezes, his hand going light on Pete's tattoo, his sharp breaths bouncing cool off the wet patch he's left on Pete's neck. Pete can't crane his neck to see Mikey's expression but he can guess at the quirked eyebrow and the confusion.

"I don't wanna come yet. Not yet." His voice is wrecked, words coming out on panting breaths.

Mikey eases up on his elbows, looking down at Pete, his hair all wrecked and his mouth all kiss-swollen. He's so fucking beautiful. "You want me to fuck you." Mikey says it as casually as if he were reciting Pete's coffee order.

"That was the plan." Pete pants the words out, eyes half closed and his face scrunched up. He's still not quite back from the brink. It's taking a lot for him not to just shove up with his hips and rub one off on the curve of Mikey's leg.

"I thought you said we didn't need a plan. I thought were going to wing it."

Fuck Mikey and his fucking steel trap memory. "Just get the fucking lube. Please. Jesus."

"So less winging it. You're saying that we've got some artistic license to reach a set outcome," Mikey says. He pulls back as he speaks and grabs the lube off the night stand where Pete had placed it with the condoms, seriously, like two hours ago because he is going to get fucked.

"You talking like your brother: not sexy right now. You fucking me: sexy. Try and keep up."

Mikey's glare doesn't hold a lot of kick. Pete can see the smile in his eyes. Pete has to reassess him on the sexy-meter when he starts spreading lube over his fingers. Because he has really long, elegant fingers and Pete knows what he can do with them. Watching Mikey get them all slick and shiny and ready to be inside Pete pretty much maxes out the sexy scale.

When he leans down over Pete, balancing on one elbow and skating the back of his other hand up the inside of Pete's thigh, Pete actually shivers.

"Are you going to stop being a little bitch?"

"Not planning on it," Pete laughs. He loves laughing during sex. He loves laughing, period, but when there's other physical pleasure involved, it’s like he thinks dying must be once you get past all the painful regret shit. He doesn’t know for sure. He didn't get that far in February. This is better, he can do it more than once and he gets to have Mikey. "You don’t know bitchy my bitching I will be if you're not inside me soon."

"I'm terrified."

"Mikey Wentz-Way I swear to - oh fuck," Pete moans because two of Mikey's lube-coated fingers push inside him at that exact second. It's not enough, not even close, but it's _something_. Hot rough skin made wet and slick starting to hollow Pete out are a whole lot of something. "Fuck, oh fuck yeah."

"I love the way you say my name," Mikey muses. He noses the bruise he left on Pete's shoulder and worries the spot with his teeth.

"Mikey," Pete groans, trying to arch into the bite. He can give Mikey that in exchange for the way he's making Pete feel right now. He's going to turn it purple and Pete does not care. Normally he'd be into that that, but, really, he could give a shit about anything but the way Mikey's doing that thing where he scissors his fingers and his knuckles bump Pete's prostate. That's even better than bite marks because the empty feeling is receding, just a little.

"No," Mikey says and what is he doing talking? No talking. Talking slows his fingers and makes the biting stop. Pete is against talking. "Say my whole name."

Oh. _Oh_. Oh, fuck Pete loves him so fucking much it is really, really distracting. "Mikey Wentz-Way."

"Yeah. Like that."

Pete hitches his hips up. It's not even on purpose, his body just does it because fuck, he needs more. "Mikey Wentz-Way." He says again, voice too throaty and shot with need.

When he tilts his head down, Mikey's mouth is stretched into a wicked grin. "I'll give you a hundred years to stop saying that."

Before Pete can fathom a response, Mikey twists his fingers, shooting heat right up Pete's spine and he's bucking up off the mattress. "Fuck. _Fuck_ , Mikey."

Mikey nips at the bruise on Pete's neck, the already-aching flesh spiking with fresh pain. "All of it, Pete." The words push hot into Pete's neck.

"Fuck. _Fuck_." Pete huffs out the words because his spine is actually dissolving now. "Mikeyfuckingwentzway if you don't fucking fuck me right the fuck now- " Pete chokes off, because Mikey's wrapped his hand around Pete's dick now, holding tight and low and Pete's brain can't actually find any verbal function anymore. All the heat in his body is in one place, under Mikey's hand, and Pete's lucky he can even breathe.

Mikey takes advantage, leaning down and kissing him, hard and rough and just the way Pete needs it. Pete drowns in Mikey's taste - god, how is this his fucking life? He can have this forever, now - clinging to Mikey's shoulders until their lips break apart with a wet noise.

Mikey looks down at Pete over the rim of his glasses, his eyes serious and intense. "I'm going to take my fingers out now. Don't bitch."

Pete nods rapidly, already squirming, so completely impatient for the next part. Still, he can't help the small whine that leaks from his lips when Mikey slips his fingers free.

"I said don't bitch." Mikey punctuates the statement with a brief nip at Pete's chest.

"I'm not bitching." And he really isn't. He just feels so empty now. So wet and open and _ready_. Too ready. Overdue. "I'm fine, I'm fucking peachy. Now give me your dick." Pete's already groping at the beside for the strip of condoms he knows is there. Who put all this other shit in the way anyway?

"Fucking tested, Mikey. I told you to remind me." He shoves the condoms at Mikey.

Mikey takes them, pulling a face at Pete. "I told _you_ to remind _me_." He rips one free and Pete nearly loses his mind waiting for him to get it open and put it on. This is exactly why they need to get tested, he wants Mikey right _now_.

The consolation prize is getting to see Mikey roll it on and stroke lube over his dick with those long clever fingers, eyes half-closed, mouth soft and loose. Pete's heart lodges in his throat for a moment and he gets stuck watching, transfixed by Mikey's face, his hand, the way his chest shifts with each breath.

"Here. Let me." Pete sits up, his fingers joining Mikey's and even with the thin layer of rubber preventing skin-to-skin, it's fucking glorious. He hasn't touched Mikey enough tonight, he's been selfish and greedy and he'll make it up. He kisses Mikey hard, lips and tongue promising blow jobs and rimming and lazy morning sex until Mikey's hands are pressing him back down onto the bed.

Fucking _finally._ He doesn't say it. He doesn't have to, Mikey knows. He manhandles Pete into position, pushing a pillow under Pete's ass and pressing his legs back, because he knew Pete would want it this way - face to face - of course he knew.

As impatient as Pete was to get to this point, when Mikey's leaning over him, his bony hips pressing into the back of Pete's thighs and his lips a breath away, Pete's a little shaky. It's probably his imagination the way it feels like his banging heartbeat tugs at the still-raw flesh of his new ink. Probably just his overactive mind that makes it feel like every time Mikey draws a breath it's pulling the air out of Pete's lungs. Probably.

Mikey nudges his hips forwards gently and fuck, there it is. The light press of Mikey's dick at his ass, like he's asking permission. Like he needs it? Like Pete hasn't been begging - literally - for this all night.

"Mikey, come on. Please, please, come on." Apparently Pete's not past begging yet. He skates his fingers down Mikey's back, his skin warm and a little sweat-damp, resting his hand on Mikey's ass and pulling forward. Mikey doesn't follow the motion straight away, he holds still, watching Pete, eyes hot and intense.

"I'm on. I'm on you and in you, Pete." He rolls his hips to punctuate this fact and oh, yes. Pete likes that. Has been waiting for that for days. Mikey thrusts into him with the same steadiness that he uses to keep a rhythm going on his bass and it makes Pete's spine vibrate like the strings. "See? Feel me?"

"No." Pete chokes out.

Mikey turns his head and gives the side of his neck a sharp nip."Liar." He reaches back to adjust Pete's legs so that instead of being just tucked up to his chest, they're draped over Mikey's shoulders. "You're a fucking liar and I love you."

This is better. This way Pete can dig in with his heels, leave bruises of his own over Mikey's shoulder blades as he pulls himself up so that he can get more of Mikey, who knows he's a liar and greedy and needs attention like most people need air and loves him in spite of it, maybe because of it. Mikey loves him. He just said so.

"I can't," Pete pants because it feels good, full, but not right. The slide of Mikey's cock inside him is good. It's good and so full he could come right now if he wanted to but he doesn't because he was only lying a little. Yes, he can feel this but he can't feel _Mikey_ , not like he wants to."Mikey, please."

"Please what?" His voice is smooth. His bangs hang down over his glasses a little and the lenses are starting to fog at the edges. Pete wants to fix it. He wants to throw them across the room so he can see Mikey's dark eyes better. He wants to explain but he can't.

Words are failing him.

Mikey does that to him - makes words fail. He's made English his bitch when it comes to every other human being on planet Earth but with Mikey, it's like he's learning to speak. So he curls upwards and kisses Mikey because maybe if his tongue fucks it's way into Pete's mouth like his dick is splitting him open it'll be enough. He wants it to be enough, wants to feel like he's Mikey's, like they're not so far away when they can’t actually be any closer without some sort of scientific experiment gone wrong, like Jeff Goldbum in the Fly.

"I don't– Fuck." Mikey changes the angle of his thrust by pulling one of his knees forward. It makes pleasure spike through Pete's body like an electric shock. It feels fucking amazing but it's not what he meant. "I don't know. Just - I want to feel–Mikey, Mikey, Mikey, fuck me."

"I am," Mikey pants as he slides home again and again. "Pete, Jesus Christ, I am, fuck. I am."

Mikey's head drops forward like his head's too heavy to hold up, forehead pressed to Pete's, eyes scrunched closed. He whispers, "I am" one more time, the words pushing air against Pete's lips before he covers Pete's mouth with his own, fucking him with his tongue and his cock at the same time.

Pete rocks up onto him, his hands clawing up Mikey's back, clinging to his shoulders, riding out the ache and spiking pleasure, drowning himself in Mikey's taste. He throws himself into it, eyes slammed shut, mouth open, taking everything, but it's still not enough.

Not until Mikey's hand slides from Pete's hair, nails scraping down his throat, not deep but not gentle, and Pete has to break the kiss and gasp in a breath. When he pries his eyes open, Mikey's watching him, pink-cheeked and sweating, his eyes hot and knowing. He doesn't say anything, or lose his rhythm - he's still driving into Pete at a steady, brain-melting pace - he just lets his hand slip lower until his fingers brush Pete's healing tattoo again.

The light brush is like a fire graze and Pete chokes on a breath. He's gripping Mikey's shoulders tight enough to leave marks now and the burn from Mikey's touch shoots straight to his dick.

"Shit, Mikey. Again."

Mikey's head slips to rest in the curve of Pete's neck, his hair tickling Pete's skin as his mouth opens warm and hot on the soft flesh above Pete's collar bone. This time when he bottoms out he bites down, catching flesh between his teeth as he swipes his fingers across Pete's tattoo and the combination has Pete writhing under him, groaning something unintelligible, Mikey's name tied up in curses and pleading.

Mikey doesn't stop and Pete's going to lose his mind. Mikey's biting his way down Pete's neck, leaving a trail of pain and red hot ache and Pete's groaning and shoving back on every thrust. He’s pushing his chest up against Mikey's hand, needing more fire in his skin, more sensation, more of the pleasure-pain-pleasure Mikey's clawing out of him.

His cock is trapped between their bodies, leaking and straining. He's riding so close to the edge he could come without it even being touched, just the sporadic brush of Mikey's belly at the head every time he pushes in could do it.

"Mikey, Jesus. Mikey, Mikey." Pete's voice starts working again and he wants to say more, tell Mikey what he's doing to him, how he's totally fucking _unraveling_ him, but he can't get past that one word.

The name is enough. Mikey's eyes meet his and his hand slides upwards, brushing over Pete's tattoo and setting fire to that patch of skin one more time before his hand settles at the base of Pete's neck, thumb stroking over Pete's pulse point.

Mikey's biting down Pete's neck, little nips catching skin between his teeth like a pinch. These bites will leave different bruises, tiny red marks that will eventually purple and Pete will probably end up in front of a mirror, tracing the line of them down his neck like joining the dots. For now he just hitches his hips up and rocks into it, enjoying being marked as much as he'll admire the marks later.

Mikey gets to the aching spot above Pete's collar bone, the big bruise he made before - the one Pete can't see but knows is purple and glorious - and nips there too. It's like a rubber band snapping on the tender flesh when Mikey catches it between his teeth and Pete's hips seize up, shoving forward higher and harder than he has been. The movement throws Mikey forwards, his elbow slips, and for a brief, blinding moment the hand he has at Pete's neck presses hard, cutting Pete's airflow.

For a split second, Pete's powerless over his own breathing. It's basic and necessary to live and Mikey's controlling it. The sensation and thought combine to make something so heady that Pete feels fucking high.

It's over in a heartbeat. Mikey recovers, taking the weight off his hand and letting it slide to Pete's shoulder, but every atom in Pete's body is still singing.

"You okay? I didn't -"

"No I'm good. I'm good, I'm good, I'm good." The words tumble out of Pete's mouth and he's already grabbing at Mikey's hand, dragging it back across his skin to his neck, fitting Mikey's fingers back where they were. "I liked it. Fuck. I really liked it."

"Pete..." Mikey's eyes are huge and concerned behind his glasses. He's not moving anymore, his body still, sweat-slick and panting. He's still inside Pete, hard and filling him, but he's stopped thrusting and his hand is limp under Pete's fingers.

Pete's running on reserve brain power, all he can think is that he wants, _needs_ more of this. "Mikey just... can you just..." He laces his fingers with Mikey's, pressing down, pressing until he can feel the weight closing his windpipe. Not enough to stop him breathing, just enough that it's _there_ , tight and constricting. His head buzzes as he sucks in a shallow breath, it's all he can manage and fuck, he's shuddering, his cock jerking at the sensation. He has to reach down and take his dick in a chokehold or he's going to lose it too soon.

A whine leaks from his lips as he releases the pressure, letting Mikey's hand loosen. When he can focus, Mikey's looking down at him, eyes wide, his swollen mouth pulled into a hard line. "Pete, shit, I don't want to hurt -"

"You won't. You won't I swear, just this much." He presses Mikey's hand again, just to show him, but when the pressure is there he can't help but fall into it, a groan pushing out of his lips and his body rocks up against Mikey, shifting on his dick and the combination is fucking mind-blowing. He gasps as he lets go of Mikey's hand, panting with want, his skin burning. "Please. Please, please I promise, if it's too much I'll just pull you off." Pete's fingers slide down to Mikey's wrist and he tugs gently, demonstrating.

Mikey's wavering. "Pete, what if I fuck it up?"

"You won't. I trust you. I fucking love you. Just, for me. Please?"

Pete rocks up on Mikey again, fucking himself on Mikey's dick and Jesus, he's so close already. Mikey will be lucky if he gets three strokes at this rate. He paws at Mikey's hip, squeezing hard with his fingers and pulling Mikey forwards, encouraging him to move.

Pete knows he's got Mikey before Mikey does. Despite the firm set of his mouth, Mikey's eyes are burning into him, he's so fucking turned on, maybe even as much as Pete. Pete pushes his advantage, arching up off the bed to take Mikey's mouth in a hard, wet kiss. Mikey moans into their joined lips and starts to thrust again, slow and deliberate, each slide undoing Pete from the inside. It's almost too much on its own, but then Mikey fits his hand to Pete's neck, thumb over his pulse, and presses.

If Pete had breath to spare, he'd shout. As it is he can only groan weakly in his throat, making Mikey's hand vibrate with it. He peels his eyes open and fixes them on Mikey, who's watching him with a fascination that's close to wonder.

"Like that?"

Mikey eases the pressure a little, but not by much, so Pete's voice is hoarse and breathy. "Yeah. Fuck. Like that."

Pete wants to scream when Mikey doesn’t move. Or not. He will probably just breathe as best he can around the pressure because his voice isn't working that great like this, which is part of the point.

He doesn't feel like he's going to black out or suffocate but with Mikey pressing on his windpipe like this, Pete can feel his lungs. No one has ever gotten this far under his skin before. It's like Mikey's in his organs with the tightness in his ribcage and around his lungs, his heart.

When Mikey finally moves, pushing in slower than before with so much of his attention focused on keeping his grip on Pete's neck on the right side of safe, it's better than anything Pete could've hoped for. The combination is perfect. His lungs burn and his throat aches and the stinging tattoo and fresh bite marks all pulse in time to his heartbeat. It's off-beat with the rhythm Mikey is trying to set up, but it doesn't matter.

It's quiet in his head, still and full of nothing but Mikey - just like his body. It's amazing. It's enough, finally enough of Mikey inside him to quiet the edge of need that's been building in him since the needle first touched his skin a country ago, maybe before that, maybe since the first time he sat down next to Mikey in a venue parking lot.

There are a lot of things Pete wants to say as Mikey fucks him. _You make me feel less hollow. I could have dreamed you up and you wouldn't be as perfect as you really are. Thank you for marrying me, thank you so fucking much. If I died like this, right now, it'd be the best way to die. I didn't know a human being could love someone like I love you._ None of them come out around Mikey's grip. All he has the air for is Mikey's name and that comes out garbled and hoarse.

Mikey's response is to drop his head and kiss Pete, slow and dirty like he's fucking him. He's going to come like this, breathing Mikey's breath straight from his mouth. He is. He lets go of his cock to grab at Mikey's back and pull him closer. The added friction makes Pete feel blind with pleasure, or possibly oxygen deprivation. It doesn't matter because Mikey strokes his thumb over Pete's pulse. He does it in time to one, two, three deep thrusts before Pete surrenders, coming wetly between their stomachs so hard that he actually whites out.

Pete blinks back to himself to find his husband hovering over him. He can breathe freely but Mikey looks worried. Worried but still hard, Pete notices with a smile that feels slippery on his lips, like the whole thing could slide right off his face.

"Hey," Mikey says. He's propped up on his elbows peering down at Pete. His glasses make his concerned expression look owlish. Mikey would make an adorable owl. Pete would totally name his owl Mikey if he were a wizard.

"Hi."

"Are you okay?"

"Mmm."

"Pete," Mikey begins, but Pete stops him.

He is not going to ruin this with his Way Worry-lines of Doom. "Finish fucking me, Mikey. You promised and I can still feel you." He reaches up and pushes Mikey's glasses up his nose. "I want to watch you come."

The worry-lines fade a little, replaced with a look that could burn Pete inside out. Mikey licks his lips, and the sight is so sexual that if Pete hadn't just come his lungs out, it'd get him going again. Mikey isn't moving, though.

"Pete, you just -" Mikey waves a hand over Pete that says _pretty much passed out_ , blinking like he's trying to keep his head. Pete doesn't want that. He wants to see, to feel Mikey come undone.

"Yeah, I did and it was fucking amazing." Pete's hands slide up into Mikey's hair, tugging a little the way he likes it. Mikey's eyes slide shut and his head turns into it, nuzzling into Pete's wrist. "Come on."

Pete grabs Mikey by the shoulders, manhandling him messily onto his back. Mikey squeaks a little but he goes with it, he's always more malleable when he's worked up. It's elbows and legs all over the place and Pete nearly knees Mikey in the face but he manages to get Mikey laid out without letting him slip out. He winds up squatting over Mikey's lithe form, one hand on the bed to balance himself.

He lets his weight pull him down, Mikey's dick sliding to the hilt and they both groan simultaneously. Shit, that's it.

"Fuck, babe. Motherfuck." Pete starts to move, pushing up on his knees and back down again, a slow slide that has Mikey tossing his head, biting his lip, his hands flying up to grasp at Pete's hips, thumbs pressing in.

"Fuck, Pete." Mikey's hand slides up Pete's chest, fingers tracing his sternum. His hips are starting to push up rhythmically, in counterpoint to Pete's movements. "You're so fucking beautiful like this." Mikey's voice is throaty and wrecked and Pete would be a damn liar if he tried to deny the thrill that runs up him at the sincere words.

He lets his head drop back, just feeling Mikey inside him, on his skin, tingling in the still-sore bruises on his neck. He's just riding Mikey now, moving on his cock, and every strangled breath and moan from Mikey's mouth just pushes him higher and faster.

Mikey's covered in a sheen of sweat and his hair's a wreck, stuck to his forehead and neck in dark clumps. His breath is hitching in that way that makes his chest shift and Pete has to run his hand up Mikey's chest, letting his fingers trace over the bumps of his rib bones. He'll never, ever get tired of seeing Mikey like this.

"Pete. Shit." Mikey's hand on Pete's hip grips tighter, hard enough to ache, and Pete loves it. Mikey's pushing up with his hand, guiding Pete into a faster rhythm, and Pete goes with it, feeling the burn in his thighs as he fucks Mikey's dick. Mikey's making those delicious throaty noises now, the ones that mean he's close and Pete wants, no, _needs_ to get him there.

"Fuck Mikey, come on." Pete pants, getting a handful of Mikey's ass and pulling up, encouraging. "Come on, harder, I'm not gonna break."

"Pete,." Mikey gasps, his hips shoving up faster and fuck, Pete can practically smell it on him. He falls forward onto his hands and knees, stretching his neck to find Mikey's mouth, kissing him messy and rough, teeth and tongue. Mikey whines into his mouth, planting both feet on the mattress as his hips stutter. His fingers clench tight on Pete's hips as he starts to bucking up hard into Pete. Fuck, Pete's going to feel it tomorrow, but right now it's perfect, feeling Mikey just letting go.

Mikey breaks the kiss, gasping in a breath a moment before his body goes stiff, shaking under Pete's. He makes a strangled, choked off noise against Pete's cheek, hands curled tight around Pete's back and he bucks up once more. Pete can feel the pulse and release inside him as Mikey gasps, his body bowstring taut under Pete. Mikey's hot breath dances over Pete's cheek and ear and Pete nearly comes all over again by proxy. Fuck, it's almost better than his own orgasm to feel Mikey's like this.

They stay like that a while, sweat-slick and panting, Pete trailing his hands through Mikey's damp hair as he comes down. When Mikey's breathing starts to sound normal Pete leans in again, taking his mouth in a kiss that is slow and lazy and everything he wishes he could put into words. Because kissing's easier than words, he can throw himself into it, taste Mikey as Mikey tastes him, paint his desire across Mikey's lips with his tongue.

He's breathless again by the time their lips part, and more than a little drunk on Mikey. He strokes a thumb down Mikey's pink-stained cheek, his mouth stretching wide into a smile that Mikey echoes back at him.

"I fucking love you." The words bubble out of his mouth, floating from his lips before he's even finished thinking them.

Mikey's lips curl into what should be a smirk, except he's smiling too much, "Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Oh fuck you, dickface." Pete messes up Mikey's hair roughly, and bites him on the shoulder. Mikey's yelp turns into a laugh, scrunching his eyes up at the sides, and Pete could just look at that all day. Except he can't stay like this, his muscles are already protesting the position, and Mikey's reaching between them to grip the condom while he pulls out. Pete can't help moaning at the loss, but there's an ache there now, a well-used, well-ridden kind of ache that he'll be able to feel for days. Feel and revel in and remember.

He rolls onto his back when Mikey pushes him gently, so he can get up to ditch the condom. He doesn't let Mikey go far, snagging him by the arm and pulling him back onto the bed as soon as it's gone. Mikey goes willingly, rolling onto his side and tucking his face into Pete's neck. Pete wraps his arm around Mikey's shoulder and pulls him close, resting his chin on the mess of Mikey's hair.

They lie like that for another moment of long quiet breathing. Mikey strokes his hand up and down his hip. Then he says, "You're a freak, Pete." It's fond though, charmed. He ends this statement by tilting his head back and kissing the underside of his Pete's jaw briefly before tucking his face back into Pete's neck. "Like, really, a huge freak, and remember who that's coming from."

Pete smiles into Mikey's messy hair. "Thanks. You liked it too, though. You thought it was hot, you weirdo."

"Well, it was bizarre and needy but fuck yeah it was hot. You in a nutshell." Mikey chuckles a little at that and rubs his nose against Pete's collarbone.

It's a gentle tickle of soft skin over skin and totally different from the desperate, violent fucking. It's the side of this whole married thing that Pete is most excited about.

"I don't want to be in a nutshell. I like it here in bed. We've got– " Pete glances at the digital clock on the bedside table. "Thirteen hours before you have to be anywhere. So you and me both are avoiding nutshells and are going to stay in bed, with the bathroom counter and shower optional."

"Right, because the door is a wall." Mikey agrees.

Pete grins so wide it hurts his cheeks and nods against the Mikey's scalp. "Exactly. It's like the Cask of Amontillado in here. Only sexy and without the slow death from thirst."

Mikey's laughter starts as a choked-back snort before he explodes into nearly hysterical giggles. His whole body shakes and it sets Pete off too. He's laughing, covered in stinging bite marks, in a midlevel hotel bed in London between sheets still sticky where Pete came, cuddled up with Mikey, his husband. It's not the honeymoon Pete would've imagined for himself, if he ever could've imagined such a thing.

Instead Pete is covered in bruises and aches, cackling like a crazy person along with Mikey. There are no rings and no champagne or flowers. Instead they have mirroring tattoos, a pair of necklaces, some slightly risky sex and the knowledge that tomorrow there's another show where he has to tech and Mikey has to play.

But unlike any possible fantasies, this is his life. This is really happening, and so Pete wiggles closer to Mikey. Mikey stops laughing long enough to make a pleased noise and Pete thinks "screw imagining" because this, right here, is the best of all possible worlds.


End file.
